Page 4 of Sadist

“Nothing,” I said, as a squeak of laughter bubbled up and I masked it with what could only be described as a strangled hum. “Black humor is my default, and I told someone last week that I’d hit my lowest point.” I gestured around me. “Guess the universe said, ‘Hold my beer, fucker, we found a cellar in the pit.’”

She eyed me for a long moment, probably wondering if I had been smacked in the head.

“Why do you think you were taken?”

I shook my head. “I have no great fortune of my own, so it will be tied to my family.”

She cocked her head. “Money?”

“I’d say so,” I replied darkly. “Unless they want a liver for the black market. In which case they are screwed, I spent three months in Russia recently and I still can’t look at vodka.”

That actually got a chuckle from her, before she seemed to catch herself with a look of surprise.

“You don’t scare easily, do you?” she asked.

I was about to throw my usual sarcastic retort back, but something in the way she was looking at me made me hesitate.

“The thing is,” I said after a moment. “Fear is the only time I feel anything anymore. I doubt they can do worse to me than I’ve survived already.”

Her gaze changed, becoming more intent.

“They could kill you.”

I leaned back on my mattress and stared at the concrete ceiling.

“They could.”

“You think there are things worse than dying, Octavia?”

I let out a small, amused huff. “There are many things worse than dying. Though I’d rather not, you know? I had plans for summer.”

I glanced at her in the resulting silence. Not that it was anything I was unused to. My affinity for the worst kind of humor led to a love-or-hate kind of reaction from everyone I encountered. From the way her lips had tilted ever so slightly up on one side, she was struggling to figure out which.

Maybe it was the lingering drugs in my system, but…Jesus Christ, she was hot.

No, it was definitely the drugs.

Becausewhat the fuck, Octavia, you are chained in a murder basement.

I let her lead the conversation for a while, answering a plethora of questions and skipping around the ones that would expose me as the disgraced daughter of the largest tech mogul in the northern hemisphere. I didn’t want to see the hope return if she thought that would—in any way—help us.

Then I peppered her with my own questions, trying to glean any more information as to how screwed I was.

And the result?

Thoroughly. With no lube. I was just sitting here waiting for my jailer to come and enlighten me as to whether I was to be spare parts or used against the Vanguards. Maybe I would get lucky and be sold off in the skin trade to some filthy rich but mentally weak geriatric who I could convince to let me live out my days next to their pool in exchange for a weekly lap dance. I’m sure I could learn to dance like my life and eventual liberty depended on it…

“Where did you go?”

Her question halted my racing thoughts, and I turned back to my cellmate with a questioning hum.

“You’re face,” she said, watching me in bemusement. “It’s very…expressive.”

“Uh…” I scratched the back of my neck. “Don’t ask. Geriatrics and lap dances.”

She snorted, tipping her head back to rest against the concrete wall.

“Well, this has been fun, but I fear I’m not getting anything I didn’t already know, and I’m dying for a strong drink.”

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